


The Shadow Realm

by AgentCoop, whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Companionable Snark, Dragons, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fantasy, Gen, Gnomes, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Wizards, oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-06 06:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: It’s not a typical afternoon when Steve Rogers walks up the steps of his front porch to find a small brown package with his name printed clearly in still wet ink.Soon, he is transported into an incredible fantasy world, full of magic, extraordinary creatures, and danger beyond anything he could possibly imagine.Because the Shadow Realm is in peril. A dangerous group of wizards has banded together, determined to win control over the world and open its gates to all of humanity and they’ve employed a secret, shadowy assassin to secure their power at any cost.Steve Rogers doesn't know why he was chosen to be the savior of a parallel universe, but now that he is here (complete with a massive barbarian body and sword) he may as well give them all hell.Featuring: The Winter Soldier, Big Steve, and a myriad cast of fantastical creatures including a animated ink blot with a rather large personality, a group of nomadic gnomes, and, of course, a dragon.





	1. An Anticipatory Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starmaki (themirrordarkly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themirrordarkly/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [Sami](https://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/) for making the absolutely incredible art that goes with this story! I'm so thrilled that I finally got a chance to work with you--you were the most supportive and fabulous partner anyone could ever ask for!
> 
> Another huge thank you to [Sue](https://http://starmaki.tumblr.com//)who's awesome prompt inspired this entire story! This was supposed to be her fic from Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 but she was SO patient with me and waited until now for it!
> 
> And finally, a huge thank you so much to [Dani](http://mystrana.tumblr.com) for her constant support, cheerleading, and beta-reading. (And tense changing. Mustn't forget that. The friend who edits 8k of present tense back into its proper past tense is a friend for LIFE)

The package was innocuous enough, laying there ever so slightly cockeyed in between the screen and the front door. It was small--no larger than the size of a paperback book--and wrapped in heavy brown paper.

_**Mr. Steven Grant Rogers** _

_**828 Bleeker Street** _

it read, in spiralling and curled letters, shiny with ink as though almost still wet.

There was no return address, or anything else to reveal a possible sender.

Steve looked back over his shoulder to the street. It was a melancholy sort of Tuesday afternoon. The sad and neglected houses lining the other side of the street seemed to shimmer in and out of focus as the rain came down in sheets, splashing the ground with the hardened roar of angry spirits. His eyes focused in on one spot, just beyond the peeling yellow paint of his porch bannister, and followed the path of the sheeting liquid. As he watched, a shadow moved through the road and parted the sheeting water as though it were merely a curtain. Steve followed the lines of water and watched as they bent unnaturally before relaxing once more into straight even falls.

Steve blinked. Shook his head. Let his vision fuzz out for a moment and then focus back just slightly further up the road.

The same thing was happening there.

A shadow, moving through suspended fabric, lifted the rain and let it fall once more as it made its way up the street toward the dark copse of trees that bordered the small neighborhood.

Steve watched this happen for unquantifiable amount of time--his heart beating loudly in his chest--until he could no longer see the small patch of darkness down the lane. He swallowed and forced himself to relax, allowing his fists to open and his fingers to move once more. Then, upon convincing himself that he was thoroughly and completely imagining things, he shook his head again and turned back toward the package.

_Mr. Steven Grant Rogers._

No one addressed him this way. He went by Steve in the University Library where he spent his days by himself in a windowless room behind heavy iron doors in the archival section. He went by Stevie to his mother, who called him daily to check in, to make sure he was feeding himself properly and filling his prescriptions, and to inquire to his well being with such pertinent questions as “have you enough wool socks for winter?” and “have you met any nice girls?” and “have you met any nice boys because you know that would be alright also, you know?”

Sarah Rogers was the perfect mother in every way, but she worried over him incessantly and no amount of bravado, independence, or other such shows of braggadocio would persuade her that, no, Steve Rogers did _not_ actually need someone worrying over his every moment of existence.

But back to the matter at hand.

He bent down to pick up the small, wrapped parcel and carried it with him to the porch swing, the screen door slapping shut behind him with a frigid metal clang. Then he slid the tips of his fingers under the packaging and pulled.

Inside was a small box, containing four twisted and misshapen sticks of charcoal. He picked up one and twirled it between his calloused fingers, his brow wrinkling in consternation. Once more he looked to the street, but the rain continued to fall--this time in regimented lines--no further diversion from its chosen path. There was no shadow; there was nothing remotely shimmery about the dilapidated houses lining the walk across from him, and he was rocking gently in his porch swing holding a piece of charcoal that had clearly been mistakenly sent his way.

And then, because Steve Rogers was nothing if not particular about cataloging, he thought through the many uses a small, misshapen stick of charcoal might hold.

A rubbing.

Odor Neutralizer.

A cave drawing.

A water purifier. (It seemed that with each new year brought a new phase of absolutely insane things that college students were willing to try to be young, hip, and environmentally savvy. Charcoal in water bottles wasn’t even the craziest thing Steve had seen.)

A sketch that he could lovingly gift to his significant other. (It would help to have a significant other. It would also help to have any artistic talent whatsoever.)

Compost. This might actually prove useful, though four tiny sticks probably wouldn’t go very far.

He carefully set the stick he was holding down next to the other three, then picked up the packaging again, intending to crumple it and throw it in the recycling bin just beyond his swing.

A tiny scrap of paper fluttered out and landed precariously on his knee. Steve frowned, then picked it up between his forefingers and brought as close to his glasses as he was able. The scrap was the size of a postage stamp, but tiny clear letters were printed there--written in the same curled script as was scrawled on the initial package.

_**if a door is wide open, don’t go back to sleep** _

Steve shuddered as a shiver passed quickly from his neck down to the bottom of his spine, then the charcoal lit up in bright blue and grew uncomfortably hot between his fingertips.

He yelped and dropped it, watching it roll beneath the porch swing, and stared down at his fingertips. They were pink--almost chapped--as though they’d just been burned. The creaking of the porch swing swaying back and forth seemed louder suddenly and Steve slowly turned his head, wary of the omnipresent force he felt from the altogether pedestrian street that he lived on.

The rain had stopped falling.

He closed his eyes once and squeezed tightly, willing his brain to catch up with his perception.

The rain had stopped falling in mid air. Droplets were suspended all around the small house and porch, and he could see through them now across the road, where every tree stood tall, unmoving, unwavering, not a single branch blowing in the breeze.

Steve rose cautiously from the seat, and it creaked back and forth, back and forth, slowing until it, too, stopped, and then he was alone with the chilling wind--watching the world in moratorium. The faintest trill of sound against wood caught his attention and something tapped gently at his boot. When he looked down, the piece of charcoal was there again. No longer blue, no longer animous, merely a reminder of his current situation.

He bent down and touched it, pressing it into the soft wood of the porch, and the smallest bit melted from the tip, leaving a thick chalky line. The residue began to glow faintly blue once more, but it wasn’t hot under his touch. He watched it for a moment as each particle of charcoal caught the next and flamed for moments, leaving bright blue embers in its wake. Just as quickly as the line caught, it faded back to black once more.

He tried again, swallowing apprehension and disbelief and any rational part of his oh-so-rational mind. There was an almost imperceptible tack, tack, tack, coming from inside the house from the grandfather clock his grandfather had left him. The antique was still ticking on though the world around him was suspended in viscous time.

This line was longer, but still fizzled out as soon as the edge of the charcoal was reached.

Steve thought for a moment, and wiped his left hand on his pants, leaving the smallest smudge of darkness against the blue denim. Then he bit his lip and began to draw again.

This time, he drew a door. He traced a line all the way from where he was crouched up to the shadow underneath the still porch swing, then perpendicular to the tiny slip of paper that had drifted on a breath of wind to the far corner of his porch. He nudged it to the side with the charcoal stick, and the paper turned to ash.

“If a door is wide open, don’t go back to sleep,” Steve murmured as though compelled to break the unnatural stillness surrounding him. He brought the charcoal down and drew another long line back down to the bottom, then across once more--connecting all four in a large rectangle.

They lit then--the stunning blue flame catching quickly, and then bursting to life along the entire outline and framing the wooden slats of the porch in a sparkling hue, before dissolving completely.

Steve stood staring down at a large hole in his porch. It didn’t, as one might expect, show the mossy dirt of the crawlspace. Instead, it shimmered with a darkly golden light and Steve found himself shielding his eyes even as he tried to look even deeper.

There was no going back at this point. He knew this as surely as he knew the mysterious package with its four charcoal sticks had been delivered with perfect accuracy and was truly meant for him. The shiver that had lodged itself against his lower spine radiated outward and the hairs of his arms raised in perfectly charged energy. He reached across to the porch swing once more and pocketed the rest of the charcoal, then he stepped through the door and fell.

***

If you happened to be looking directly at 828 Bleeker street in that perfect moment of time, you might have seen a shadow move towards the glowing door, before the brightest of blue flashes, then nothing more. Directly after the flash, the doorway disappeared, the house still stood, and slowly, ever so slowly, the porch swing began to creak back and forth, back and forth as rain gently fell.


	2. A World Unspoiled By Men. (Mostly.)

His head hurt.

Steve rolled over onto his side and groaned as he reached up to touch the sore spot right behind his left ear. His hand came away sticky. He groaned again, then sat up and his vision swam.

“Most people choose to walk through the door, rather than tumbling in.”

Steve winced, then looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice. It was deep, but with a buzzing quality that sounded of sandpaper scratching over top of a pebbly surface.

The voice spoke again. “Hmm. You’ll do I suppose.”

“I’m sorry?” Steve called out, still seeing no one. The ground was suitably hard, as ground is wont to be, yet it wavered at his vision still, looking for one moment like dry, arid landscape, and the next as though it were covered in the smallest bright yellow fuzz. He reached out and gasped in surprise at the softness underneath his fingertips. With each touch, the bright yellow became even clearer, but as his hand moved it faded back into dust and dirt. He rubbed his head once more and blinked, trying to clear his eyes, but the yellow still shone brightly under his hand. “What…?” he mumbled.

“Takes a little time to get used to. Your brain hasn’t caught up quite yet. It’s still stuck in the human world and is trying make connections and synapses based around what you know is real. Unfortunately, the human world is considerably less sophisticated in it’s artistry then ours so...it will just take a little time to catch up.”

“I…” Steve mumbled once more, confused and still attempting surreptitiously to locate the being speaking to him. “Who’s there?” He finally settled on, somewhat lamely. He heard a snort, then an inky dark silhouette moved out from behind the shadow his own body was casting.

“Tis I! Your humble guide!”

The voice was louder now and Steve scooted back in surprise as the puddle of ink began to coalesce into something vaguely humanoid. The dark black rolled up and out, forming appendages, then rotated upwards to shape a thickly turbid head. A smooth dark line appeared, then parted as the being began to speak again.

“Fear me not, oh small ever-so-mortal human! For I shall lead you deeply into lands of magic, chaos, enchantment–”

The voice cut off suddenly and the being dissolved as Steve swung a stick directly through its midsection. He expected more spring from the hit as the entity looked significantly gelatinous entity, but instead the stick swung straight through in a clean line--sheering the being directly in half. It collapsed and burst outward, back into its original inky black puddle. Steve watched it suspiciously.

“Don’t come near me,” Steve called out, then bent down to pick up the stick once more. He stood slowly, the puddle still for the moment, and bent at his knees, wielding the stick in front of him as though it were a sword, or a hatchet, or a rifle, or anything more formidable than a stick.

The puddle started to gather again, and Steve backed up.

“I mean it, stay away!” He gesticulated wildly with his weapon of choice.

“Ok, ok, just wait a second, I don’t have even _eyes_ yet you barbarian, give me a chance!”

Steve edged forward the slightest bit and swung, and the stick managed to lop off a hastily formed arm. It puddled back to the ground, the burbled as it crept up the figure once more.

“Stop it!” the voice roared.

The very flesh on Steve’s bones exploded with goosebumps at the horrid sound of that sandpapery pitch. The figure formed wholly, and Steve found himself looking at a tiny caricature of a human being, no larger than his forearm.

“Do you have any idea how much work that is? It’s exhausting! I’m now in dire need of a nap, but of course I’m stuck explaining things to you. The barbarian. Who cuts down innocent beings when they are merely trying to help!”

“Stay back,” Steve warned again.

“Stay back, stay back, yes you’ve mentioned. _You_ stay back barbarian-man,” the figure snarked. Then it bent down, inspecting its body.

Steve watched the mouth open and close, though silently this time, and he realized it was counting fingers and toes. Then it felt along its abdomen, up to its neck and mouth. Finally, its hands dropped.

“Acceptable, under the circumstances. Now, where were we?”

“What is this place?” Steve murmured--stick still held at the ready.

“Usheira. The Shifting Planet. The Shadow Realm. You humans have many names you’ve given over the years. Naming is always so...important to you. To us it is _home_.”

It’s voice buzzed in contentment on that last word and Steve wrinkled his nose, the ink being’s answer not helpful in the slightest. “Where is this place?” he amended.

“That is even harder to answer,” the being admitted. Then it wrinkled its own nose in delightful mimicry of Steve’s motion as though testing out a new found movement. “We live at the edges of your consciousness. In the grey area that surrounds humans. A sort of–”

“Dream?” Steve interrupted, curious now. He looked down at his feet and noticed that the vivid yellow from earlier was spiraling out from where his boots touched ground.

The being sighed. “Dream is so egocentric. But you are human. It’s to be expected. No. We are not dreams. We are real. But yes, if it helps you envision our place in terms of your own world, yes. We live at the frayed edges of dreamscape. Sometimes humans poke through unintentionally. Usually it ends poorly. Usheira is not the safest of worlds.”

Its voice drifted off for a moment and Steve shivered. A cool breeze touched the back of his neck and the spiraling yellow turned to murky olive green in response. He thought for a moment, tonguing at the back of his teeth as though choosing each syllable perfectly.

“How did I get here?”

“Mmm,” the being mumbled. “You were chosen.”

They regarded each other then for a long moment. The breeze stopped, the olive green turned back to yellow, and Steve slowly relaxed his fingers and let go of the stick.

“Chosen for what?” he whispered.

The being cocked his head, and a viscous darkness ran down to the ground suddenly, as though it were leaking from its ear. “Damn,” it swore. “I hate this form.” It bent down and scooped up the extra liquid, then pushed it back into its ear. “Better.”

Steve gaped.

“We need a human to save the realm.” The thing flinched, then heaved a big, bubbling sigh. “Without humans we cease to exist. Our world would spiral apart, having nothing left holding it to your own planet. Once, long ago, humans came freely to Usheira. They lived alongside us and we loved as one. But time passes and seasons change and over centuries we have grown apart. We’ve forgotten the sacred bonds that once let our world coexist in harmony–”

“Uh huh,” Steve grumbled. “And obviously an archivist from Brooklyn who weighs a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet is your best bet at saving the universe.”

Blue froth began leaking from the thing’s mouth and Steve heard a sound not completely unlike that of a wino being sick in an alley.

“You, uh...you alright there?” He hesitantly took a step forward, and the thing only made the noise even louder.

It took a moment, but Steve realized it was laughing.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” it sputtered out, “all things appear in their heart’s form in the Shadow Realm.”

“I’m sorry?” Steve managed, but the thing was already pressing its hands together and stretching out the black ever so thinly between them, shaping and molding until the surface was three times larger than the thing had even been in the first place, and was a bright, fluid, and reflective void. It nodded then, and Steve knelt down to peer into the hastily constructed mirror.

“Oh my–” he paused as his hand came up to rub at his firmly sculpted jawline. “Oh my God. You’ve made me into Conan.”

“If you are referencing some poorly construed humanoid art form, I’m afraid I don’t follow. You were molded after your heart. You are the hero Usheira needs.”

“My heart…” Steve sputtered off. He brought his hands up in front of the mirror. They were enormous. Muscles rippled from his back to his chest, down his humongous beefy barbarian arms. His hair was slightly longer now--which explained the sensation of things crawling on him at all times, and his glasses were gone. His face was...handsome.

He’d never felt handsome before.

He looked as though he were carved out of marble, perfect, flawlessly executed, just awaiting the opportune moment to draw his long sword and slice of appendages of offending creatures of death and destruction.

Unfortunately, he didn’t appear to have a long sword.

Unfortunately, he didn’t appear to have much of _anything_.

“I’m naked?” he squeaked, looking down at his bare feet in horror. He had been wearing his work clothes just moments before--the same clothes he’d come home from the library in. The same clothes he’d opened a particularly pesky package in. Blue jeans. A dark green sweater. Brown dockers. _Clothes._

The being sighed dramatically. “I told you that your brain needed to catch up with the surroundings. Right now it’s firing every image in its power from your memory banks to try and soothe you into the transition. When you woke up here, you assumed you were still on Earth, so it fired accordingly. Now, your eyes are starting to open.” It chuckled, once more blue froth bubbling to the surface of its thin line of a mouth. “You seem to be a fine specimen.”

Steve blushed, color rising to his cheeks faster than he thought possible and covered himself with his hands. It didn’t do anything to help.

“Oh, don’t be ashamed. We’ve all manner of beings here. No one will look twice. Though your heart appears to think very...largely of you.”

Steve moved to turn away in anger, but then realized it was just as bad. There was no way to cover himself. He blinked, looking around, but all he could see around them both was dry, dusty desert. The yellow moss at his feet shrunk back for a moment and turned to brown.

“No , no!” The thing cried. “Don’t give into it. You’ve begun to see! Relax and open your eyes!”

“If a door is wide open, don’t go back to sleep!”

The ominous message from the slip of paper earlier sounded a lot less spooky and a lot more like complete inanity coming from this strange little creature.

“They’re open, dammit,” Steve grumbled but he took a deep breath in and pushed out every worry and fear and self conscious stressful thought and focused on breathing. The air was cool here, despite the comfortable warmth that seemed to surround his skin, and for the first time Steve noticed that breathing in felt intolerably cold as the air hit the back of his throat. The air pressed against his eyes, as though trying to suck all available moisture from them, and he gasped as the yellow at his bare feet flared back to life and spread joyously outward.

It was incredible.

He forgot his nakedness as he gazed at the beauty around him. They were standing in the middle of a forest that shone brightly with every imaginable hue. Dazzling flowers bloomed all around them--some larger than even Steve--and each was its own perfect variegation of color. Enormous trees grew upward, closing around them and creating a canopy that shielded them entirely from the sun, yet an effervescent glow permeated the branches, illuminating gently falling specks of dust and pollen that looked almost like snow.

His skin prickled as the falling dust landed gently, then flickered in a brief moment of sparkle at the contact before fading away once more. A flush of sound grazed his left ear and he turned hurriedly to see an enormous dragonfly, easily the size of his head, swoop past and flit up high into the trees, past the point of sight.

He gasped in awe even as a buzzing of approval sounded at his feet.

“Yes. You see now!” The ink walked happily up to his feet and perched atop his biggest toe. “Usheira. The Shadow Realm. City of Dreams, Shifting Planet, Ageless Infinite.” It paused and bent over, scraping at Steve’s toe, and Steve flinched at the not entirely unpleasant grate of the thing’s soluble shifting form against his flesh. “Toe lint!” it announced, then promptly put it in it’s mouth. It chewed once, then twice, then the line of a mouth quirked into a grin and it happily announced,

“Home.

***

The trees in the Shadow Realm grew clothing.

Not your typical Banana Republic pullover with classic skinny denim. That would have been far too easy. Then again, Steve figured that new and improved Steve 2.0 probably wouldn’t even fit into skinny jeans.

All of this was besides the point though because the trees in the Shadow Realm grew clothing and Steve was finally covered in what appeared to be some sort of cottony tunic over brown leggings. Apparently the fantasy realm hadn’t yet experienced its own fashion forward reckoning.

Ink blot creature thing cheerfully chattered on about the cotton trees providing apparel and Steve just followed along aimlessly, still quite shell shocked without a single thought for how theoretically impossible it was for an actual tree to grow a piece of clothing let along a piece of clothing sized correctly for a now two hundred and fifty pound behemoth of a man.

They’d made it just over a mile past the ever-so-convenient shrubbery when Steve stopped in horror.

“The charcoal!” He exclaimed. He threw his hands up and pulled at his hair, suddenly nervous and anxious and drawing a second door was his only possible way back to the human world as far as he was aware and it was gone–

“Check your pockets, Barbarian.”

It was curiously unalarmed at the sight of Steve having a full blown panic attack in a copse of many colors and instead just blobbed at his feet--quite entirely useless.

“My pockets quite literally did not _exist_ until ten minutes ago,” Steve hissed, then buried his head in his hands. It was dramatic, but an effective way of communicating his current emotion of outright hysteria.

“Oh my, they chose a dramatic one,” the thing chided. “Humor me. Check your pockets.”

Steve released his head and dropped his hands to the small slit of a pocket on the side of his rather tight, but curiously comfortable leggings.

There, perfectly wrapped in plastic, were four individual sticks of charcoal.

“How?” He murmured, confused as to how he hadn’t felt them there in the first place--confused as to where they possibly appeared from while he wandered the foreign countryside naked as the day he was born.

“Eh, you were chosen. They are quite hard to get rid of if they belong to you. Not impossible mind you,” the thing waved its little blue finger at him, “but difficult. They still existed when you came through. You just had to remember that they were there.

“That makes no sense at all. If I could simply remember that they were there, then I could just remember my clothing back.”

“Yes.”

Steve clenched his jaw and by sheer power of will, kept his hands at his sides. “Well in all mathematical, scientific, theoretical, gravitational, philosophical and quite frankly spiritual tenants that the world revolves around, that makes no sense!”

“Yes it does.”

“But it–” Steve cut off and scowled, toeing his bare feet in the soft moss. “Fine. As you seem disinclined to provide an instruction manual on dreaming myself up proper attire, does there happen a leather tree nearby that could make me some footwear? Or perhaps a horse tree. I could use a trusted steed. I’d be happy to harvest that myself.”

“You sound perturbed.”

“I’m not perturbed.”

“Hmmm,” it buzzed at him. “You are getting sarcastic. You only get sarcastic when you are perturbed.”

“You’ve known me for all of an hour!” Steve exploded, and a fluttering burst of brightly colored plumage sputtered out from the trees around them.

“Oh. Now you’ve scared the flutterbyes.”

Steve sputtered and threw up his hands. “I don’t even know what to say to you! I don’t even know what you are! Why I shouldn’t just draw myself a fancy little door and step back to earth where I can wrap up in a lovely, warm afghan and fall asleep fully clothed in my perfectly comfortable queen size bed!”

“Please don’t.”

Just like that, it was solem again. It pooled around Steve’s feet for a moment, then coalesced back into being and walked up Steve’s leg. He flinched at the cool feeling once more, but allowed the thing to scale his full height and then settle comfortably on his shoulder.

“It’s as I’ve already told you. I’m your guide. And we need you to save the world.”

“And do you have a name besides ‘ink-blot-creature-thing’?” Steve asked.

“Mmm I am called...Quentzmorene Aurelius Puddle.”

Steve flicked it off his shoulder and It landed in a burst of foliage before crawling out again.

“That cannot possibly your name. I refuse.”

“That was rude, Barbarian.”

“Steve,” Steve ground out. “My name is Steve. You may call me Steve.”

“And you may call me Quentzmorene Aurelius Puddle.”

Steve gapped at It now, unsure of the social constraints and rules of this world and if indeed Quentzmorene Aurelius Puddle was an authentic Usheiran name or if the thing was still just being an ink blot asshole.

It’s mouth quirked again and It began that awful heaving sound that Steve now associated with laughter.

“Right,” he said.

“I’m particularly fond of the way those names feel on my tongue.”

“And does your kind even have a tongue in your normal globular form?” Steve interrupted. He bent down though, and held his hand out--feeling ever so slightly dismayed at his treatment of the thing. It brushed Its hands on Its legs then began to walk back up Steve’s arm and returned to Its position on his shoulder.

“I am my kind. There is no one else. It is only me. I am the guide. I am the escort for humanity through our world. I have been here alone since the beginning and I will be here alone in the end.”

Its tone was almost ceremonial in its cadence and as it gazed at him in earnest with glittering eyes, Steve shuddered. “Speaking of dramatics,” he added, and It buzzed once more, directly in his ear in agreement. “Could I just call you Cue?”

“Cue,” the thing spoke, tasting the single syllable once. Then It smiled. “Cue will do.”

Steve smiled, then stared down woefully at his feet. “Alright, Cue. So...if you want me to save the world...I could really use a pair of shoes.”

***

The pair walked loudly through the forest, murmuring quietly but their voices carrying far as though the trees amplified every acoustic.

A thick piece of shadow peeled slowly away from base of a large trunk--very near to the exact point where the first portal had been opened. It shifted to the forest floor and moved slowly, but purposely, following the deeply ingrained tracks of barefeet in moss.

If you gazed at it for just the right amount of time, the shadow shifted in minds eye. First a wolf, then a dragon, then a snake. If you persisted in watching, the changing motion slowed, slowed, settling at last on a tall, masked man.

If you gazed at it longer still, the man turned back to shadow and the shadow moved perfectly, randomly, out of sight.


	3. In Which Steve Encounters the Gnomads

They came to the edge of the forest sometime that evening. Unlike good, old, regular Earth forests, the tree line didn’t thin into nothing in a perfectly gradual way. Instead, as was everything in the Shadow Realm, it merely ceased to exist in the most dramatic of fashions. In one moment, Steve and Cue were trudging through deeply exotic floral underbrush, and the next moment--it simply fuzzed out of existence, leaving them close to the top of a rather unexciting grassy hill.

Steve stopped in surprise, but Cue kicked it’s legs ferociously atop of his shoulder, as though guiding an impertinent steed. 

“Keep moving! We’re almost there!”

“Almost where, exactly?” Steve grumbled, not all together enthusiastic at the treatment, but thrilled to feel the warmth of sunlight beating down on his skin once more.

“Almost to the next circle of enlightenment!” Cue added cryptically. “Oh, and a bed. You humans always seem to appreciate those.”

Steve groaned and kept moving, cresting the hill moments later. Then he did stop, and refused to budge even with the patter of gelatinous feet at his collarbone. 

All down this side of the hill sprawled a village of sorts--though truly the only identifying factor was the myriad of small smokestacks exiting the tops of what Steve could only assume were homes. The buildings were of every conceivable shape, size, and color and were placed in the most haphazard of fashions throughout the valley below. In one corner stood a small triangular building of the most lurid purple imaginable--complete with a spherical yellow roof that seemed to be made completely of flowers. Only a bit away from that were three more buildings built almost on top of eachother--in fact, a door (hexagonal in shape) stood ever so slightly ajar, unable to close entirely because the siding of the oval abode next door was built right up against its face.

There were homes made of red brick, and homes made of green straw, and homes made of mud. There were pits, dug hastily from the valley ground and covered with fabric, and tents in paisleys and polka dots. 

Stranger still were the creatures that walked the crooked and bending paths between structures. They were small--most looked as though they would scarcely top Steve’s knees, but despite some wearing fancy gowns, and some wearing overalls, and some wearing canvas pants with suspenders and some wearing nothing at all but a cloth diaper, all had beards down to the dirt ground. 

Steve reached to his shoulder and opened his palm, letting Cue step forward. Then he carefully lowered him to the ground. “Please tell me those things don’t bite?”

Cue giggled gleefully, then promptly dissolved into liquid and rolled down the hill.

“I guess I’ll take that statement in the affirmative,” Steve muttered to himself, then he followed Cue down the path.

As he approached the first of the structures, a droning noise filled the air and the house suddenly puffed out for a moment as though taking in a large breath. Then the entire thing rose up on stilt like legs and walked away, leaving a rather confused looking creature sitting cross legged on a woolen looking stone. “Oh?” It questioned, looking right at Steve bewilderedly. “Is it time to move again?”

“I, uh…” Steve turned, looking for any sight of Cue, but he’d lost track of It. 

“Barish,” the creature said, holding out a crinkled hand. 

“Oh! Steve,” Steve replied, holding his hand out in return, but Barish had already retracted his and was now scratching at something quite far up the inside of his right nostril. 

Steve pondered this behavior for a long moment--his hand still outstretched--before he settled on nodding his head in a show of general deferance, as Barish did appear to be quite a bit older than his own twenty-two years.

“What brings you here, Steve?” Barish asked--his voice now ever-so-slightly squeaky as he had yet to remove the offending finger. 

Steve looked around once more and caught sight of a group of tiny, bearded creatures all giggling and throwing themselves onto the ground with squeaks of joy. He squinted, looking even closer as one of the creatures went flying backwards with a loud _aaEEEIIII!_ and noticed an inky blue substance stretched thin and trampoline-like over the opening of one of the many pits. Cue.

“We, uh...I’m a visitor here and my friend over there,” he motioned vaguely, “is just showing me around?”

Barish wrinkled his nose and his eyes flashed black. “There are no visitors to the Shadow Realm.” His voice was deeply chaotic now, almost prophetic, and Steve swore the earth trembled for a moment beneath his feet. He took a step back as goosebumps lit up and down his forearms. 

A shadow fell on them both as a single cloud drifted in front of the glowing sun and Steve looked for Cue again. The breeze picked up, and a wash of glittering leaves blew suddenly past his face, though there were no trees around that he could see.

Just as suddenly, the cloud moved and sunlight poured down on them once more, warm and wistful.

“Mm!” Barish announced, pulling his finger from his nose and procuring a darkly green mucus. “Finally. Nope, no visitors. Only beings from this realm and humans. Those are far and few between, though…” his voice, now brightly colored in tone, drifted off for a moment and he stepped closer to Steve, looking up at him through his tightly coiled beard. “You do look the sort. Are you human then?”

“Uh…” Steve took another step back, the goosebumps from the prior moment still unfaded from his skin. Cue seemed to trust these creatures, but Steve wasn’t entirely certain if he even trusted Cue yet. He wasn’t sure that revealing his true nature at wanton will seemed wise. “I’m–”

“Human! We have another one at last!” Cue announced from Steve’s feet, and Steve looked down, relieved that the decision was made for him.

“Aha, tis a thing to celebrate then, isn’t it!” announced Barish, and Cue began to dance the most globular jig Steve ever thought possible. 

“It is, it is!” Cue laughed gleefully, then he melted his way towards Barish and the two linked arms and continued the strange sort of movement.

Barish stopped suddenly, and narrowed his eyes once more at Steve. “He’s not the shadowy sort, though, is he?”

Cue turned his head towards Steve, and regarded him in solem fashion before turning back to Barish. “No. I rather think there is a luminescent brilliance about him. He’ll do.”

“Mm,” Barish nodded. “He will need that and more to defeat that which lies ahead.”

A spark of the darker tone carried with Barish’s last sentence and Steve shivered, drawing attention once more from Cue.

“Oh, but you haven’t even been properly introduced yet, my boy! Steven Grant–”

“Just Steve is fine,” mumbled Steve, but Cue wiggled several long, dripping, fingers in irritation at the interruption.

“Steven Grant, as it were,” It continued, “meet Barish Roundbottom. Leader and Supreme Chieftan of the Gnomads.”

***

The Gnomads were actually quite a delightful species. Steve sat as comfortably as he was able on one of many moss covered logs circling a small fire pit. Children ran back and forth from the self-movable constructions, shouting out in glee and tossing small sticks and balls in games of catch. The entire population had great, long beards with curling whiskers that began at the base of their bulbous noses and ended (in the case of the adults) all the way at the tips of their toes. Even the children were covered with whiskers, and there seemed to be no difference between the male and female genders besides the colors of their garish clothing. (The women of the species wore every color of the rainbow in brightly variegated weaves, and the men wore a pastel version.)

Cue filled him in on the basics of the people. The Gnomads moved from place to place as the wind carried them, and it was all at the will of their very much alive homes. Often times, the Gnomads would go to sleep someplace warm and comfortable, then the structures would pick up in the middle of the night and carry their sleeping attendants miles and miles away where they might wake up shivering to a frigid wind and snow covered ground. 

As such, they built their lives in an incredibly mobile fashion. The Gnomads shared everything with each other. There were no material possessions at all--not even clothing was owned. Instead, each being went house to house taking what they needed and leaving something completely different in its place in trade.

It was a completely chaotic system. 

Steve watched as an older woman (identified by her bright purple smock over ghastly orange pants, and a long braided beard) moved to the cooking fire and began roasting what looked like a small bird atop an enormous metal washbasin. As she worked, faithfully turning the carcass in three minute increments, a small child ran up to her and handed her a pouch which the woman overturned over the roasting bird. 

A delicious scent wafted over as the spices caught on the hot wash bin.

Just across from Steve, a young male came out from a house and sat down to tie his shoes. He looked down in bemusement at the two very obviously right shoes in very obviously different sizes, then worked his gnarled and crusted foot into one while only huffing and puffing the slightest bit, then easily slipped his right foot into its proper mate. Then he smiled, got up again, and hobbled across the way where he greeted the woman roasting the bird with an incredible display of passion.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, as Cue globbed up to sit beside him once more. “How do they live this way?”

“I don’t understand why it concerns you in the slightest,” Cue replied haughtily, his eyes focused on the crackling blaze in front of them. He reached out his hands and Steve watched as the fire illuminated them, causing them to glow in an almost ethereal manner--the blue filmy and full of movement within the thick constrictions of It’s almost human body.

“I…” Steve paused, unsure of what to say.

“It’s always the same with you humans, you know. You enter the world, you get your instructions, and you immediately begin to change those around you. _For the better,_ you say, and _your lives will be easier this way._ But you never understand. Our worlds depend on each other but they are different for a reason. The Gnomads are happy. They are joyus. Be one with that emotion and let it exist.”

Steve looked down at his hands for a moment, cradled in his lap pulling at the thick cotton of his tunic. “How many humans have you been guide for, Cue?” His question was quiet, almost timid, but Cue cocked his head in immediate understanding.

“Far too many. And I’ve failed you all.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said. “I thought Usheira was dying and you needed a human to save it?”

“Usheira is always dying. Just as your world is always on the brink of collapse. You need beings from the shadow realm to save yourselves just as much as we need you.” Cue looked up to Steve, and Steve put his hand out, allowing him to crawl up to his shoulder once more. They stared at the sun setting --casting an exquisite blue and red shadow over the horizon. In the distance, Steve could make out two moons already risen--one large and familiar, and the other small and a hazy sort of green color. Cue sighed, then continued on. “Every war you humans have, it is the artists who save you. The Da Vinci’s, the Michaelangelo’s. The PIcasso’s. Each were visited by a muse if you will. A being from our side. And your world continued, set on its course, not straying into darkness and despair. 

It is the same over here. The humans help ground us, save our world from destruction. But instead of returning to Earth as they are supposed to do, some stay---a cancer to the Shadow Realm.”

The shadows grew longer all around them and Steve crossed his arms around his body, suddenly cold. 

“You mean to say...there are other humans here? There are others who know of this place?”

Cue pinched him on the collarbone and Steve yelped. “Once again, Steven Grant, you are not special. You are not an anomaly. You are one in a long line of men and women who have been chosen and notated in the ledgers of our world for centuries and you are here to fulfill a duty.”

“Yes, save your world, I know.”

“Well, perhaps you are the slightest bit special,” Cue amended, sounding all the world as if It were about to cry.

Steve plucked It from his shoulder and held Cue out, so they could look at each other. “What do you mean?” Steve whispered.

Cue shuffled for a moment in the palm of his hand, melting slightly, then congealing back into form as though determined. “The humans who stayed have formed an alliance. They are known as the Coven and their ultimate goal is to gain control of Usheira and all of its inhabitants. They want to open the gates and breech our world, contaminating it with all of humanity. They will kill us all.”

“Oh,” Steve said, uncertainly. “I see.” Then, because he was tired, and he hadn’t eaten a real meal in over a day, and he was wearing the Usheiran equivalent of a loin cloth, he added somewhat sarcastically, “So basically I need to save the world twice. And kill the human wizards if possible. The human wizards who are all powerful yet absolutely _suck_ at naming themselves. The coven? The _coven_?” He was getting worked up and he knew it but he just couldn’t stop himself at this point. “And then try my hardest to ignore my basic white male colonizer instincts and leave a magical realm when you tell me to. Am I close?”

“You are irritable again.”

“I’m IRRIT–” Steve drew in a breath, and sat Cue down as gently as he could. His hands were starting to shake. “Can you please,” he breathed, “for once, just tell me the entire truth? I showed up in a universe I didn’t know existed less than 48 hours ago. And first you tell me that I’m here to save the world, but oh, there’s magic. I’ll be fine. You’re my guide. Everything is fabulous. Then, mere hours later, you hit me with the ‘oh wait, there’s a bunch of maniacal wizards about who will absolute smite the hell out of you because they want to control the world. Oh and they’ve been living here for years, decades, centuries. Just biding their time. Gathering their power. Is there anything else you want to add?”

“Only that–”

Steve groaned and put his head in his hands, and Cue fell silent. There was a sharp sputter as a log broke in the fire, consumed by flames. “Please, continue,” Steve mumbled through his palms.

“There’sarumoredshadowbeingassasinthatthey’veemployedtodotheirbiddingandheisalreadytrackingyou.”

“What?” Steve announced loudly, dropping his hands in fury.

“There is a shadow assassin. That is working for them and he is already tracking you,” Cue muttered.

“I…” Steve stared at Cue, too shocked to consider the full ramifications of his statement. “There is someone after me?”

“Yes,” Cue said, looking at Steve pleadingly, and Steve relented--lowering his palm once more and allowing Cue to move up to his shoulder. “There is a being after you. But all will be well.”

Steve shuddered out the barest mockery of a laugh. “How do you figure?”

“They have six wizards and an assassin. You have all of Usheira on your side.”

Steve pondered this, long into the evening hours, watching the dim light of the two moons play off each other’s faces and wondering how far away Earth really was. He fell asleep with Cue tangled in his hair, the ground hard underneath his body.

***

When they woke the next morning, the Gnomads were gone. The only thing that remained of their lively caravan was a small mauve and chartreuse ball woven out of fabric scraps that Steve pocketed next to the small bag of charcoal.


	4. The Shadow Revealed

The soldier materialized onto a barren plain of crushed purple wheatgrass. He blinked his eyes, letting them focus slowly. Materializing from the ether was always a bit of a bitch.

He was in some sort of hollowed out valley, surrounded by hills of all shades and hues. He walked slowly, purposely, his heavy boots crunching the grass ever further beneath the weight of his tac gear.

A few feet from him, a small object caught his eye and he stepped forward and knelt, letting the still standing shards of purple blow past his fingers. It was a small ball--wooden, and not quite perfectly spherical--clearly carved by hand. There were small imprints on the surface in places as though it’s owner had carried it so frequently that the oils of his skin has worn away the wood.

The soldier pocketed it and stood, scenting at the air.

The remains of a campfire stood a few meters to his left, the charred fire pit still giving off the faintest wisp of smoke that smelled of dirt and char and something every so faintly spicy…

Earth.

He scowled--the edges of his mouth pressing uncomfortably against the hard leather of his mask.

He was getting closer.

He took in another deep breath, tasting the chilled air of Usheira, before once more dissipating into shadow.

***

“What is this nonsense?” Steve said, pushing his pathetic attempt at an oar through the murky water once more.

He and Cue sat atop a shoddily constructed barge that they’d found tied up against the bank of the muddy water some hours ago. Cue had ever so helpfully suggested that they paddle downriver some ways in hopes of finding his friend ‘Tarra’ who could help them ‘immensely’ because she was ‘such a helpful sort’. What Cue didn’t mention was that Steve would be responsible entirely for the direction of the barge, which included pushing through what felt like millions of pounds of petrified muck with as much strength as he could muster to move the ghastly thing even mere inches.

His muscles burned.

And now, to add insult to injury, it appeared to be snowing, but the small white flakes hit his skin with a searing heat.

“Mmm,” Cue said. “Winter.”

“It’s fucking hot!” Steve said, his eyes still on the water in front of them, because God forbid he move them for one moment and let the barge drift back to the muddy bank where it was so wont to be.

“Yes?” Cue said, crossing his arms in front of his body and looking up at Steve with liquid orbs.

“Snow is cold.”

“Is it?” Cue held out one hand and let the flakes drop, smiling slightly as the barest hint of steam escaped from his skin at the touch. “It appears to be quite hot.”

“I…” Steve trailed off. “Snow is...where I come from, snow is cold.”

“Ah. Where you come from. Interesting. It must hold true for every one of the billions of parallel universes that run adjacent to ours.”

“Well...no…” Steve sputtered.

“Snow is hot here. The beauty of it is the warmth it provides to all of the creatures who live in the Shadow Realm through the dark days of winter.”

“But it’s melting!”

“Yes?”

“It’s not scientifically possible! There are five states of matter and the–”

“Seven,” Cue interrupted, “but do continue.”

Steve glared. “ _Five_ states of matter. Snow can’t be hot and melt. It has to start frozen.”

“Mmm.”

“It starts frozen and then as it warms it melts. If it stays cold, it stays in a frozen state. Otherwise you would have no accumulation.”

“Interesting,” Cue said dryly, then motioned Steve forward with a flick of his arm.

Steve grimaced at the realization that he had unintentionally taken the command to heart and was already paddling once again.

They continued on for hours in silence, the drab snow falling and warming them before flaking off to gather in the joists of the small wooden boat. Steve watched as it collected, watched as it shifted with each and every rock of the boat. It formed into spaces, divots, collecting in perfect vibratory patterns.

Like grains of sand moving in line under one tonal frequency.

“Quiet,” Cue suddenly announced.

“Err,” Steve started, unsure of what he was doing (besides paddling in a not altogether rambunctious way but still in the way of someone who would like to eventually arrive at a particular destination) that could possibly be taken for loud.

“Quiet, you barbarous oaf,” Cue amended.

Steve scowled and deliberately picked his oar out of the tepid water and held it out perpendicular to his body, unwavering and unmoving.

The water lapped in mute grievance around them.

Cue finally sighed, and globbed his way along the bottom of the boat to where Steve stood, then began crawling up his left leg. “Paddle.”

“Yes master.”

“Paddle, please.”

“Hrmmm,” Steve grumbled, but he obeyed, pushing the oar back into the water and moving them forward once more. “Is there something more you wanted to say? Perhaps tell me what you were listening for?”

“The trees were talking.”

“Oh. Of course they were.” Steve shook his leg, but Cue stayed firmly attached.

“There is something out there.”

“Mhmm, yes the trees would know, wouldn’t they?”

“You are quite impertinent for an alien being who has almost no actual import in this entire universe, and who doesn’t understand the first thing about how our two world function together.”

“And you are quite mouthy for something I can literally smush.”

There was a sudden and indescribable pain in Steve’s left thigh.

“Fucking hell!” Steve yelped, batting at his tunic and leggings with both hands. “Did you just bite me? Are you actually able to bite? For fucks sake, Cue.”

The unattended oar slid all the way under the water with nothing more than a sickening squelch.

“Oh, shit,” Steve murmured, his hands pausing. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit–”

“You squeal like catterfly.”

“I’m sorry?” Steve said, his face heating up in anger. “Our one oar is gone, because you decided to bite me? And you have the fucking impertinence to comment on my reaction? And what in the ever-living-fuck is a catterfly?” He was raging, making no effort to be quiet.

“Language, Steven.”

“Language?” Steve’s voice went up almost a full octave.

“The trees have ears.”

“So you’ve mentioned!” This entire thing must have been a joke; maybe someone secretly dosed him with LSD and left him alone in a locked utility closet of the library, rocking back and forth and drooling. “Forget it.” Steve rifled around in the baggy cloth covering his gigantic frame and came up with a piece of charcoal. His hand shook ever so slightly as he began to draw a line on the planking of the boat.

Cue burst from his leg like a malicious explosion. “You idiot! You absolute imbecile! You giant beast like man with a pea for a brain!”

Steve didn’t even look up. He just continued drawing. Attached a perpendicular line to his first.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you are about to put a hole in the boat!”

He paused. “Oh. Umm...I thought it would make a...portal? Back to earth?” Suddenly his voice was small, frighteningly floral in its cadence. Suddenly he felt very much like small-earth-Steve.

“Of course it will make a portal! To another river! Or lake! Or ocean!” Cue bounced up and down, causing the snow to further segregate into perfect piles of reverberation. “Why would you draw a portal in the bottom of a boat?”

The sky had begun to darken, almost as though a filmy layer of ash had descended to hang lifelessly in the air. The trees across from them moved, a cool wind shuffling their leaves, and their dry crackling hissed in Steve’s ears.

_The trees have ears…_

“Cue?” Steve said, uncertain now.

“You imbecilic, infantile, miniscule... _human_!” Cue continued to huff, his body drawing up around him and expanding like a very dark, and irredeemably angry balloon.

A dark fog pooled along the riverbank directly across from them, and the chittering, crackling stopped. The loss almost drove Steve to his knees with panic.

“Cue!”

Cue stopped., He rotated ever so slowly, his presence sinking towards the bottom of the boat. An animalistic cry came from deep in the woods, before cutting off abruptly.

“Cue, what’s happening?”

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh, oh–”

Cue turned in circles, chanting this mantra of supreme unhelpfulness. Steve stood in the small wooden boat, terrified and defenseless, the one oar long lost to the depths of this cursed river.

“Could I draw the portal into the ocean now?” He suggested, his caustic sarcasm not entirely able to cover the quiver in his voice.

“It’s too soon,” Cue spoke without inflection., His body undulated and changed from inky black, to translucent grey, to opaque, dusty ash. Appendages began to form quickly and with a military order. Dozens of them sprouted from the gelatinous creature, all pointed and metallic and hard. “He shouldn’t be here yet…”

His voice shot between octaves, one word starting high pitched before sinking to a low bass that causes even the water to tremble. The discord was hell on Steve’s ears, and he fought the urge to cover them.

“Cue, what’s going on?”

“He’s coming,” Cue said, his voice settled on that deadly bass note. “He’s coming.”

The fog rolled in, ever thicker, and Steve quivered. Cue grew impossibly bigger as even the trees began to quake and a mournful wail of the earth pierced the sky, and all of this happened and still more--

when the monster walked out to the edge of the water.

He was dressed in black, and looked decidedly more human than Steve thought possible of an alternate universe where humans don’t exist. He was also carrying guns and knives, and Steve didn’t even have an oar.

He didn’t have anything close to a weapon.

He had a Cue, who made horrible growling, hissing noises as though something was physically crawling up its throat and expanding from the inside out.

The monster cracked his neck to one side, and then the other, then, seemingly without any thought whatsoever, he stepped into the river and began walking steadily towards the boat.

Steve panicked. The small craft jiggled beneath his weight as he scoured the boat for something, for anything that he could possibly use to defend himself. The snow scattered into haphazard piles, no longer the beautiful, intricate designs of sound--now just the dessicated remains of agitated wonder.

“Cue, talk to me,” he pleaded, but Cue was silent, even larger than Steve was, forming some massive pitch black wall of spikes between him and the terror splashing towards them. Cue rippled steadily, but Steve tasted the fear in the air emanating from him.

Whatever _this_ was?

Cue was unprepared.

The monster splashed towards them, moving impossibly fast for a creature pressing against the weight of water. His hair was tangled and matted against his scalp, and he wore a horrifying muzzle of black leather across his face. Steve could see nothing but his eyes--and they shone with a glistening blue hatred.

Time stopped when Steve stared hard into those unforgiving orbs and the monster stared back, unfeeling, unforgiving, unmoved.

Then he hit the boat with an arm and the entire craft flipped.

It was shallow enough for them to stand with the water barely touching the base of Steve’s chin. It came slightly higher on the monster, but he seemed wholly unaffected by the barrier. Instead, he moved towards Steve like an inexorable fate and when he hit him, Steve went under.

He lost time. Minutes. Hours. Days.

He was unsure of much but the salty, toxic taste in his mouth from the noxious river. The water around him was murky with blood and his eyes watered with the pain from his broken nose.

The monster knew how to hit.

It was an almost hilarious thought, before Steve realized that he was having trouble standing. He was dizzy; he couldn’t see straight; his nose was _wrong_ ; he tasted blood pouring down his throat and he was quite possibly the most useless barbarian in the entire line-up of known barbarians because there was only one hit and he was down.

He shook his head and immediately regretted it. He was back down in the water, floundering and trying to find his balance and it was another twenty seconds of chaos before he pushed himself up again, choking, and sputtering.

Behind him, the monster fought with Cue, and Steve wished for the barest of moments that he’d just stayed down.

Cue was oozing white matter.

It was a horrifying sight, for a creature that was the embodiment of pigment, and Steve wanted to be sick with the way the putrid eggshell matter slid like oil down the front of the otherwise pristine black. It hurt his eyes, and his throat, and his ears, because it was not right. It was inherently wrong; Cue shouldn’t be like this.

“Cue,” he forced out, and another wave of dizziness brought up the remains of his breakfast.

Now he was standing in chin deep water surrounded by his own blood and vomit.

“Steve, use the portal,” Cue ground out, his voice eggshell white, and Steve didn’t know what to do. There were hundreds of appendages holding the monster back but it just kept coming, with knives, and teeth, and its own arms, and Cue couldn’t keep holding it back for long because Steve saw that gleam in the monster’s eye.

He was here for Steve.

And he wasn’t going to stop.

“There’s nothing to draw on,” Steve choked out, not even mentioning the fact that the charcoal was wet and dissolving in river sludge. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Change the world! Use your mind. You were chosen, make a portal!” Cue gasped and Steve saw fading quickly. Cue was shrinking now, appendages disappearing, more white overtaking the black and the more black it covered, the more it looked like nothing. Like nothing was ever truly there. Like Steve was staring at a place, but it didn’t exist and his eyes couldn’t focus because it was fuzz, or it was white, or it was gone–

Nothing.

“Oh my god,” Steve murmured, and his hands came up above his head, shaking desperately, but pushing charcoal into the air. He made a line, then a second line, then a high pitched wail sounded behind him and he lost focus. His hands shook harder. Cue was disintegrating, and there was nothing between him and the monster, and Cue was his guide, Cue was his everything, he couldn’t save a world with only himself–

He managed to complete the square and the portal flashed a bright blue in front of his face.

“Cue!” Steve screamed. “Grab my hand!”

The monster turned towards him then and tried to push forward, but Cue pushed forth one last burst of energy--swallowing the monster's left arm within himself and refusing to let go. “You have to go! When you come back it will be in a different place. But you have to go now.”

Steve heard the tremor coming from its voice, and he was about to be sick again, but he heaved himself out of the water, hand gripping the open portal as though it were the ledge of a cliff, and he’ pulled himself further in, further in, further in,

He was on the wooden porch of his quaint, unimaginative house, and he could still see through the portal for a moment as it flashed closed.

He saw Cue explode into nothing.

And then he sobbed.


	5. An Obligatory Tolkien Reference

He was small again.

It was the first thing that caught Steve’s attention after he stopped flopping around on the floor and bawling like an oversized infant. 

The fact that he wasn’t as oversized as he ought to have been didn’t bother him nearly as much as the next few identifying moments: the fact that he was wearing his sweater again, and his jeans, and he was…

Cold.

His teeth chattered and his arms were prickling with the sickly sweet sensation of goose pimples underneath the warm wool.

He hadn’t been cold during his entire trip to Usheira because it was summer there, and even when it wasn’t summer, there the snow was warm, and now he was oh, so clearly back on his home planet, flat, and grey, and dull, and 

Cue was gone.

He stifled another groan and smacked himself as hard as he could on his upper thigh. It burned his hand more than anything, but at least gave him a quick jolt back to reality. 

He was either going completely insane and hallucinating on the floor of his studio apartment, or he’d been having a crazy, mind bending experience--the sort of adventure he’d craved from the moment he’d discovered through reading that the world was infinitely bigger than he was, the moment that he’d realized he could never hope to make a difference. That the only way for him to become something great would be recruitment in some sort of fantastical battle for a fantastical world.

Perhaps it was only the sort of adventure that young introverts who spent their formative years buried in fantasy novels craved.

Either way, it didn’t matter. If he was hallucinating, it was far more emotional a trip than he’d ever thought possible. His soul was inexorably tangled between two worlds now, and whether they whether mental worlds or very real physical worlds doesn’t seem to be a huge priority.

Cue was gone.

Cue was gone and some...monster was out there looking for Steve. The entirety of the planet might be in danger, and Steve had no choice now but to stand up, brush himself off, and reach his hand into his left pocket.

His fingers collided with something solid, yet impossibly soft and he pulled out a piece of charcoal.

He was shaking as he drew this time, his chest about to crack open with the pain of the loss of his guide.

It hadn’t been more than a few days.

They didn’t truly know each other.

He still didn’t know what Cue...was.

But it didn’t stop the fogginess that was building, the unyielding sense of something missing that he was carrying now. It was wrong, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way, and even he--he of impossible faith and unending queries and atheistic acceptance of what was in front of his own two eyes--could tell that the balance has shifted.

He completed the rectangle and it fuzzed to life before him, a bright light--somehow more saturated than all the colors of Earth. He carefully pocketed the chalk, firmly ordered his mind around a pair of spandex running leggings, his favorite pair of Asics, a grey hanes cotton t-shirt, and his grey hooded zip-up sweatshirt.

Hell if he was showing up naked and unprepared to run.

For shits and giggles, he painstakingly crafted a vision of a sword--enormous, and sharp, and two handed, and perfect for slicing open shadowy monster assassins.

Then he stepped into the portal.

***

“...and I swear if you don’t start sweeping up this absolute disaster of melted M’dab Ra, I will have your head! And then your claws! And then your eyes, and your ears, and I supposed those were already on top of your head but–”

The voice stopped in surprise then, spoke up again. “Well. Well, well well. Hello handsome.”

Steve blinked his eyes open and looked up at the brightness of the sky, then clenched his fingers closed, sighing in relief at the softness of the fuzz around him. 

Usheira.

“I’d have volunteered for the job myself if I knew this was the specimen we’d be getting this time. Unbelievable. Unbelievable! Eskri, finish the mess!”

The voice moved between purring and the screeching sounds of a squawking penguin and Steve cringed as he rolled over, then pushed himself up on his hands and knees. His head was swimming again and he swallowed against a brief moment of nausea, then he pushed fully to his feet and gaped.

Nothing should have surprised him as being a part of this...fine world...but still he found his barrier for extremities to be astoundingly low. 

The thing in front of him undulated in a manner that made Steve think his eyes were most certainly crossing, and though he shook his head to clear them for a few moments, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

It was a frothy pink color, and he saw at least four eyes poking out--two in their proper place atop what appeared to be a head, and two more on the thing’s torso. It seemed to be covered in gauzy silks--scarves, or some other flimsy fabric, but as it moved towards him, they moved so perfectly with it that Steve thought it must all be the same material. Similar to Cue--all one viscous, ever-changing entity. 

Only this thing didn’t grow and shrink with size, and though the gauzy filaments seemed to sway in the air around them, nothing else changed. It had two very human arms, and two very human legs, and though its chest was uncovered, barren but for the two orbs directly in the middle, it was human sized. 

Different then Cue. But perhaps related?

“Does it speak?” The voice asked, and Steve realized that he’d been staring for long enough to make the silence horrifyingly uncomfortable.

“It does,” he began. “It does speak. English.”

Then he winced at what a sarcastic asshole he sounded like. Being in uncomfortable and unknown situations had never been Steve’s strong point and unfortunately that didn’t seem to be changing just because he’d moved to a parallel universe. 

He spared a moment of thought of envisioning himself a confident, charismatic human being and pushing that over his layer of fantastically successful clothing, then sighed and dropped it. It wasn’t worth it to layer human emotion on top of his already unstable self. Even he could see what a disaster that might be.

“Mmmm,” the thing murmured, and Steve winced at the sound. It was so unreasonably Cue-ish that he was inexorably filled with hatred for this thing. Suddenly, intensely, passionately. He didn’t know what it was, but it sounded like Cue and it moved like Cue and it was very certainly not Cue.

“I’m Steve,” he offered, shoving his hand out. He could at least be polite this time around. 

“Mmmm, yes. I know.”

“Oh. Fabulous.” Steve shoved his hand back into his perfectly comfortable pockets and toed at the dirt in his perfectly comfortable running shoes. Maybe he should just draw a door and step through, heaving the god damned charcoal behind him with all his strength. Maybe it wouldn’t follow him back. Maybe he could lock himself firmly on the other side, on Earth, and he could get himself a nice bottle of Glenlivet with his moderately sized bank account from his perfectly comfortable Earthling job.

Maybe he could drink enough to convince himself upon waking that this had all been a dream.

Instead he kicked up a rock and watched as it burst into colorful yellow glitter.

“There was an assassin thing here. He killed my friend.”

The creature in front of him quirked a surprisingly human grin at that and retorted, “Assassin thing. How very categorical of you.”

Steve sighed. Kicked another rock. Watched the resulting explosion--this time powdery blue.

“It’s a soldier,” the thing continued, frowning at him. 

“How very humanesque of you.”

It looked at him confused then, then shook its head, scattering frothy pink scales. Steve blinked then, certain that only moments ago the creature had been made of smooth flesh covered in fabrics. Now it moved in front of him and he could see the shimmering scales that covered its body, reflecting sunlight, casting tiny, gleaming pools of light around the dust.

“Didn’t Cue tell you?” it asked, voice winding up and down. It was a trilling sound now, almost bird-like, and Steve bit his tongue, refusing the inevitable question that seemed to be trying to burst from his closed lips. _What are you?_

Instead he focused his gaze on the upper of the two eyes. “Cue wasn’t particularly forthcoming. And now he’s dead. Burst. Exploded as you will. White. Soapy. Liquid.”

His voice hardened and he almost felt bad for the strength in his words, but the thing in front of him didn’t back away. Merely extended a clawed arm.

“It is a soldier. Sent from the wizards to assassinate the savior. He is very powerful because he can change the very world around him. He is very powerful because once he was a savior too.”

The claw flicked towards him and Steve found himself moving forward, despite the sudden drop in his stomach. 

“Come. I think there is much for you to see.”

***

They traipsed through the very forest that Steve watched Cue disintegrate in front of. A musty layer of pine needles blanketed the dirt, but instead of the earthy smell of green, Steve smelled cinnamon and something sweet, almost peach like. Which each step, the needles sprang back and he bounced from foot to foot as though gravity no longer functioned in the proper way.

Upon further thought, he supposed that maybe it didn’t in this section of the Shadow Realm. It wasn’t Earth after all. It was something entirely foreign.

They walked in silence, and Steve didn’t entirely mind. He used the time for reflecting, for mourning, for plenty of self-pity. He was human, and Usheira needed a human to save it, and therefore, he figured, he may as well allow as much egocentric self-pitying human emotion to come into play as possible.

They were the ones who asked for a human being to save the universe.

It was cold and dismal, in a way that Steve hadn’t seen before in the Shadow Realm, when they finally reached their destination. Steve shivered and hugged his arms to himself, wishing he’d had the forethought to dream up a flannel blanket, a down coat, a woolen hat, and maybe, just maybe, some long underwear.

It was summer just hours ago when Cue died. Snowing, but still warm, sunlit and bright. Now there was no snow, but the wind howled around them, biting into his flesh.

“Chilly?” His companion noted drily, the voice even more lizard-like than before.

“I’m fine,” Steve retorted, dropping his arms like a typical American male, too proud to show his discomfort.

The pink being snorted, then stepped up to a straight rock face. “In we go,” it said, then proceeded to step directly through the solid wall.

Steve watched, blinked, then swallowed dryly. Of course he had to walk through a rock. Of course that’s what made perfect sense. He used his moment of concealment from the eyes of an entirely-all-too-nosy-being to quickly blow on his hands and rub them. 

Then he walked into the wall.

He rebounded with rather forceful vigor. It appeared as though the rock had judged him and found him lacking. Or perhaps had just found itself…

A rock.

Steve cursed and rubbed at his nose, then looked down at his hand in surprise at the small stream of blood. He cursed again.

He heard the voice, ethereal, mystical, infuriating. “You have to open your eyes.” 

He wiped his hand on the soft athletic shorts, then sighed. Right, then. A door. A hole. An opening. Not a rock. Not a rock. Not a rock. Not a rock.

This time, he didn’t strike off the face of the wall. Instead, he pushed in ever so slightly, before it sprang him backwards. 

“For shit’s sake,” Steve mumbled, and swore he heard a remembered ‘language, Steven,’ resonate through his head. 

“For shit’s sake,” he spoke louder.

The nearby branch of a tree ruffled its leaves at him in response.

Steve painstakingly rose his hand and extended a perfectly straight middle finger.

Not a rock, not a rock, not a rock. He breathed this time, and closed his eyes, envisioning a welcoming space. A warm space. A space with a nice cup of tea waiting for him inside. He considered the rock melting away for just a mere moment, considered its feelings in the matter and considered how grateful he would be towards the exposed mineral. He thought about how ridiculous he felt, and quickly stifled that under another wave of acknowledgement for the courtesy of a rock.

Then he stepped forward.

This time he pushed through the barrier, a strange sense of gentle hardness lingering within him. It was warm inside; there was a fire crackling in a beautiful slate hearth, and a large pot hung haphazardly there, sighing and bubbling ferociously, the earthen scent of root vegetables wafting through the cavernous space. 

There was even a cup of tea sitting on a circular, oaken table.

Steve smiled and hurried forward, throwing himself on a long bench and picking up the cup between his hands.

“Nice touch,” murmured the creature, who emerged from behind a shimmering curtain, towards the back of the cave.

Steve just sipped his tea.

It tasted faintly of licorice, hinted at peppermint, and as he swallowed, it bubbled delightfully down his throat, and left a fizzing, juicy warmth that was entirely unlike any drink on Earth he’d ever experienced.

He smiled, surprised, and turned back to his companion. “What is it?” 

The being just shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Came from _your_ mind.”

“But...I…” Steve stopped. Looked down at his tea. At the way it almost glittered in the glow of the firelight. It was pink in an oddly recognizable way, and suddenly he was almost dizzy with anticipation.

“You…”

He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. On Earth, Steve was regarded as...moderately intelligent. Maybe even advanced. He had two bachelors degrees; one in english and a second library science. He had a masters degree in library science. He’d graduated summa cum laude in all degree programs. He knew how to study. Knew how to write. Knew how to speak two languages fluently (English and French) and one...well not fluently. Hebrew. He even knew the smallest bit of Aramaic from his younger collegiate years of being ever so slightly enthralled by the swaying force of religion.

Here in the Shadow Realm, he’d done nothing but look like a giant bumbling idiot. And the more he considered this, the more he thought he might actually be projecting that persona on top of himself because of the way he’d first appeared. The way he’d looked when he entered. Barbaric.

It’s entirely possible that he was controlling more than he’d realized.

“What do you really look like?” He finally said.

The frothy-pink-creature looked at him then, a glint in all four eyes. “Now you are asking proper questions. Though I’m not sure you are ready for the answer.”

Steve sighed, and mumbled, “no probably not. But it’s true then? That I’m...creating you all? I’m–”

“My word you ARE quite egotistical,” the thing interrupted. “Cue did tell me–”

“You know Cue?” Steve shouted. His tea sloshed in his cup at the sudden change of vocal frequency. 

“Of course I know Cue. Everyone knows the M’dab Ra. He is rather important to Usheira.”

Steve willed himself to complacency, envisioned a smart, intelligent, academically minded scholar, not the odorous barbarian he was, presently. “You said that once before. M’dab Ra.” His tongue didn’t even stumble over the strange word because it felt so familiar, so right as he spoke. It was similar to the Hebrew he knew. The lineage must be close.

“Mmm. Guide. He is the guide. For all of Usheira.”

“And I killed him,” Steve stated quite plainly. 

“Ego,” the thing said. “Please try to tone it down. Cue is not dead. Merely changed. He will return. He just likes to take his time about these things. He does have a...flair for the dramatic if you will.”

“And the sparkle pink thing with four eyes doesn’t,” Steve muttered.

“And here I thought you were finally understanding,” it sighed. “You are seeing what you make of me. This form is...intriguing. But not true. It is merely what you have forced me into for the time being.”

Steve shook his head. “Right. Right, sorry…” He took another sip of tea and smiled once more at the delicious burbling as it traveled down his throat. “So what are you? Really?”

The being laughed at this, then walked forward and sat across from Steve at the large table. “I have many names. But most importantly, I am a seer. Oracle.”

It paused once, and sniffed at Steve’s tea, while grimacing. Then shook its head as though brushing away the offending odor and continued.

“Dragon.”

***

Steve tried to stay calm, but he started to perspire as the world _dragon_ bounced around in his mind, followed closer by _fire, Steve FIRE._

He blinked once and breathed in deeply. Three parts, he thought. Alternate nostrils. _This is kapalabhati_ , he heard from somewhere deep within him and on the next breath in a wash of memory overtook him.

_It’s years ago. Somewhere warm and stifling. Artfully-hipster exposed brick and grey, grey Brooklyn skies framed in clean, white window frames. The yoga class is crowded but the man in the front commands their attention with ease. He’s taller than Steve. Everyone is taller than Steve. His tousled brown hair and delightfully amusing blue eyes are something new and there is a sharp tug, near Steve’s belly button. A moment of sinking, hopeless. The momentum of fate._

_James._

“Shit!” Steve sputtered, coming back to the cave once more and throwing himself back from the table. “What the fuck was that?”

The dragon looked significantly more dragon like. It was covered in pearly-pink scales now and they shuffled against each other in a delightful reptilian overture as the creature crowed in laughter.

“There we go, Steven. There we go!”

The smoke from the fire curled upwards and there were patterns, dancing, moving, spinning ever upwards until they faded into blackness.

“What’s in the fire?” Steve managed to ask before he was assaulted with another memory.

_It’s raining._

_It’s a Tuesday afternoon. He’s not sure why he knows this in his gut, but all things of import happen on Tuesday afternoons._

_There is soft crying when he walks into the yoga studio and he identifies it as coming from behind the laquered, wooden desk. It’s suspiciously empty in the small foyer, and the classroom behind the single windowed door in the corner iis dark._

_“Hello?” He says, and the crying stops for a moment._

_A small, mousy haired woman stands up from where she’d been crouched behind the desk. A cell phone is pressed tightly against her ear, but when she catches sight of Steve, she lowers it incrementally._

_“Oh,” she says, wiping her free hand against her eyes and smearing thickly painted eyeliner across her cheek. “Didn’t you get the e-mail?”_

_Steve looks behind him, suprememly uncomfortable, suddenly heavy with the notion that he’s just interrupted something intensely private. “Oh. I just came over straight from work. Didn’t check my personal e-mail?”_

_The girl sighs dramatically and collapses back into her corner. “I’ll call you back,” she intones into the cellphone, then drops it to the floor and hugs her arms to her chest._

_“I’ll...err...go then?” Steve says, backing away._

_He’s to the door when she speaks again, voice shaking. “There’s no class today. The instructor died. Biking accident.”_

_“James?” The name is out of his lips before Steve can even consider the consequence of her words._

_“God!” She cries, then falls back into thick, ugly sobs._

_**I never really knew him..**.Steve thinks._

He stumbled to clarity with a lurch, the entire world shaking back into place around him. “Jesus Christ!” 

“Just keep breathing,” the dragon said melodically. “It will show us your path.”

“Ominous much?” Steve managed to spit out, before collapsing back at the table. “Right now I’m stuck with the ghost of Christmas fucking past!”

“We’re getting there.”

Steve’s head was pounding and he felt like he might turn around and throw up at any moment. “I just...what are you _doing_ to me?”

“Oracle. Seer. Dragon.” The dragon repeated, and another wave of prescient aura blacks out Steve’s vision.

_He’s tired, and he’s irritable, and this is his life, this is what he chose, but something’s missing._

_He’s tired, and he’s hot, and he’s coughing up a lung from the damn dust in the stacks._

_He’s tired, and it’s grey and raining, and he’s not sure he can last one more day of drudgery, of painstaking, habitual monotony, of not knowing why there is a gaping hole._

_He’s tired and he finds a box on his porch addressed to Mr. Steven Grant Rogers of 828 Bleeker Street._

“I get it, I get it,” Steve came to, sputtering. “This literally happened a week ago, could we get to the ‘here is the future and how you save the world’ part, or is that just not happening?”

“You are a painfully obnoxious little thing.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The dragon glided to the hearth and stared into the burning flame for a moment. Steve could hear her huffing, and puffing, and doing that _thing_ that is supposed to be reserved for wolves and small pigs.

The smoke curled up once more, and Steve fell.

_He’s standing on damp ground. It sponges beneath him, threatening to suck him under, threatening to bounce him upwards if he so much as breathes too much oxygen. He looks down and sees moss, radiating out from his feet in tiny whorls of color--mauve, purple, blue, cerulean, pink, amber, sage. None of them match. None of the gradients fit. Yet as they swirl outwards, Steve can make out a path, can make out a weight within him that is right._

_A space is being filled._

_A cool mist sifts every upwards as though the very mountains around him are breathing and suddenly there is something more. There is a shape at the end of the rainbow, and he tries to pick up his feet, but they are stuck firmly. It moves towards him though, slowly, painstakingly, and with every small breath he can pick out another feature._

_Black._

_Mask._

_Gun._

_Killer._

_Steve wants to run now. He hunches over, frantically grabbing at his legs, pulling at his feet, but the moss holds on with a dazzling vengeance._

_“Shit, shit, shit,” he needs to breath. He needs to breath and needs to think and needs to create._

_**Sword, I need a sword,** he thinks. **Sharp, long, edged, I am a warrior, I am a fighter, I am a savior.**_

_A sword flickers in front of him but the thing is coming too fast and Steve panics with gut aching fear. The weapon fades before he can even grasp ahold of it._

_“God damnit!” he cries, then sword, sword, sword–_

_The monster is right in front of him and it raises a long, black glock._

_**Why the fuck are you thinking about swords when it has a fucking gun?** Steve thinks for a moment, before the entire world collapses in ear shattering sound._

“What the fuck!” he screamed. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!”

“Mmmm, we have reached it.”

Steve turned to the dragon and pushed himself angrily off of the bench. “What the fuck is wrong with you, I just saw myself die! That sure as hell better not be the actual future, what the fuck, what the–”

“It is an omen of things to come. Changeable. But the event will come to pass.”

“For fucks sake. I didn’t sign up to get shot. If I wanted that entire experience I could just walk down the street at two in the morning on Earth thank you very much.”

“It’s incredible that a being of Cue’s stature put up with you as long as he did,” the dragon said. Primly.

“It was a week. At most. I still haven’t figured out how time works here, but it can’t have possibly been that fucking painful.”

“Mmm.” The dragon sniffed. “Well, he did go and get himself killed to get out of the relationship.”

“Mmm,” Steve sneered back. 

“Are you going to tell me what you saw?”

“You’re the all-seeing-oracle who knows everything.”

The dragon turned and opened her mouth and suddenly the room was awash in pink, and glitter, and sparkles, and skin-flaying _heat._

Steve retreated under the table, quite quickly. “Right!” he shouts. “I mean, I bow to you your eminence and am at your command!” He quickly omited the ‘ _and disposal_ ’ that was just itching to escape.

“You should respect your elders. Human.”

“Yep.” Steve poked his head out, suitably chastised, but still awash in anger about the fortelling of his untimely, and quite frankly, unfair death. “Sorry about that. I’m a shitty human.”

The dragon looked at him then, quirking all four of its eyes. It was a disorienting sight, and Steve was dizzy with it for a brief moment.

“Right.” He said. “Some random mountains. Mist. Rainbow colored. Killer, robot, assassin, black-clad asshole shoots me.”

“Mmm,” the dragon said, yet again, and Steve wondered (not for the first time) what it was that Shadow Realm beings had against actual words. “The Mountains of Mist.”

“You can’t be serious. The Misty Mountains?”

“I believe I spoke clearly the first time.” The dragon cocked her head. “The Mountains of Mist.”

“No,” Steve stuttered. “I just mean...nevermind. You’re just lucky your world hasn’t been sued yet.”

“Sued?”

Steve sighed. “Right. Like I said. Nevermind.” He waited for a moment, but the fire had crackled out in the hearth and the smoke was dissipating and it seemed clear that whatever nightmare visions he was being assaulted with had been put on hiatus for the time being.

He sipped his tea for a moment, then looked back up at the dragon. “So how do I get there?”


	6. The End.

The dragon didn’t come with him.

“You are meant to be alone,” she said, and Steve scoffed.

“Commune with the world and understand its powers,” she said, and Steve’s eyebrows reached his hairline.

“Consider this your spiritual awakening,” she said. “If a door is open, don’t go back to sleep,” and Steve looked for something to throw.

The dragon may be an all powerful, all seeing, all knowing entity, but she sure as fuck was irritating. What he would give to have Cue back right now.

So he slept on the floor of the curiously warm cave, and he dreamed of masked men and guns and yoga classes and when he woke he felt no more refreshed then when he started, but still the dragon was pushing a bag into his hands and shuffling him towards the front face of the mountain.

“Food. Tea. The bag is made of a special material that warms or cools as your body needs. It can also expand into a tent.”

“How convenient,” Steve remarked drily. “A tent is exactly what I’ll be needing to slay a masked murderer with.”

The dragon hissed and a noxious, pink smoke curled upwards. “It was so nice to meet you, savior of all that is good.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Are you prophesying? Suddenly I feel so much better.”

“Merely engaging in that ritual you humans call etiquette. Cue brought me a book once. It was a delightful read. I’d loan it to you if I thought you were going to survive the journey.”

“There it is,” Steve said, and he stepped outside with the barest wave of his hand and a sour churning in his gut.

***

He travelled over a bubbling bog that frothed with greens and yellows and the hint of purple. The smell was so foul he was forced to breathe through his mouth for the entire three days it took for him to make the crossing. Somehow, despite the toxic conditions, tiny cerulean buds bloomed each evening as the sun set. They glowed with an iridescent light and stretched across the murky water as far as Steve could see, throwing shimmering constellations of petals across the world.

He found himself in a desert, sand so hot that he had to pause for just a moment to create some heat-proof shoes in his mind. When they appeared on his feet, they were pink and purple and speckled with cow print.

It’s clear that he still needed practice with this ‘magical creating power’ he’d been granted.

On the second week he was tired and bored, and just fed up enough to reach for the charcoal that was still safely tucked away in a pocket. He drew door after door after door. Some were circular. Some were square. One was a hundred different squiggly lines connected over an entire mile of grass.

He pushed his hand through one and watched as the filmy portal condensed his flesh. He flexed a fist, then released, and it almost appeared as though there were tiny bubbles forcing their way up through his skin.

He didn’t venture all the way through the door because even though he was bored and irritated, and walking straight into a battle with death, Earth didn’t seem to hold the same kind of sway over him that it once did.

He came upon an ocean in the third week. Its water bubbled with steam and hissed as it hit the shore, and there was no reasonable way around the all-encompassing landmark but through. (Steve knew this because he walked for three days one way, then turned around and walked for another six the other direction.) On the eve of the ninth day, he was woken from a very sound sleep inside his tent by a large booming noise. Steve rolled over, and peeked out of the folds of the magical fabric.

There was a boat waiting there, swaying in time with the movement of the ocean, and on this boat were a chorus of shimmering spirits. They clamored at him without any sound and so he packed up his tent, and forwent his usual cup of tea and climbed aboard.

They travelled for seven days and seven nights and the spirits did nothing but guide the ship and Steve did nothing but throw up over the side of the ship and by the end of this particular journey the allure of Earth actually did seem almost strong enough to pull him out of whatever _this_ was.

But he continued on because he felt he owed it to himself to see this through to the end. To face the monster. To save Usheira.

It was on the fifth day of the third week of the fifth month of traveling that he ascended the mountain and felt the ground begin to sponge beneath his feet. When he looked up, the mists were starting to form and it was becoming hard to see in the distance.

There was a warm buzz in his ears that he couldn’t quite stop and his heart rate climbed like the mountain he was ascending. Steve licked his lips and set down his pack. He stretched his arms over his head, leaning one way, and then the other. Then he settled himself down against a large rock to wait. To rest. To do some yoga. To attempt envisioning himself some rather large weaponry.

***

The soldier sensed that something was wrong.

The mists rose up around him as he stepped gingerly, one booted foot forward, the next booted foot forward, pause. Repeat. He moved gracefully, perfectly, silently, and the moss below him sprang forward as each foot lifted, never crumpling in defeat.

Still, though the mists were silent around him, though the only sound he could hear was the heavy thrumb of his heartbeat. He was anxious. He could feel something.

The air coiled around him, thick with the tension of the night, and as he breathed in, he sensed a memory. A distant past. A calling of someone, something…

Just as quickly as he craned his head to try and catch the fragments of a name, it dissipated around him, like quicksand, like fog, like amnesia.

Focus, he thought, just as flash of color fell from the sky and embedded in his right arm.

An arrow.

The soldier pulled the Sig Sauer from the heavy utility belt at his waist and fires.

***

The story ended this way.

Steve shoots an arrow and the monster fires a gun and Steve pulls his sword and angles it imperceptibly acutely to deflect the bullet. The monster sneers and stalks towards him, boots firm against the moss, the ground almost quaking in fear. Steve winds and twists and moves and all the while he’s thinking _samurai master samurai master samurai master_ but the monster pulls a knife and throws and as it embeds in Steve’s upper thigh, he thinks _not like this_.

The story ended this way.

Steve shoots an arrow and the monster fires a gun and Steve pulls his sword and he thinks _samurai pink, no, that’s wrong_ , and the bullet lodges in his carotid artery and he thinks _not like this_ as quickly as possible before he dies.

The story ended this way.

Steve shoots and arrow and the monster fires a gun and Steve dodges and the monster walks forward, throwing the Sig Sauer to the side and growling ‘fucking time changer’ and he pulls a knife but Steve is ready, he rolls again and he thinks _samurai master, samurai master, Mortal Fucking Combat_ , and he’s up and the edge of his sword slices across the monsters face mask. It falls and the monster holds a hand up to his skin where drops of blood appear, and Steve thinks ‘James?’ then the gun goes off and it’s all he can do to switch thoughts. _Not like this. Not like this._

The story ended this way.

Steve shoots an arrow and the monster fires a gun and Steve swears and he throws his sword and screams, ‘James!’ and the monster growls, ‘Fuck you,’ and fires again and Steve is hit and Not like this.

The story ended this way.

James fired a gun and Steve dodged and rolled and pulled out a piece of charcoal from his pocket and drew a door as quickly as he could. James advanced and Steve was mute and through his head, images press: dancer, lithe, graceful, prowess. His sword flashed right and left and right again, blocking bullet after bullet until James was close enough to touch.

Steve reached out a hand and thought _strong_ and as James stabbed him with a knife Steve thought _just like this_.

They fell backwards into the portal.

Together.

***

There was a ghostly wail of wind as Steve slammed into the floor of his living room. It hurt to breathe, the walls were swimming in and out of focus, and Steve pushed his fist into his mouth to block an anguished scream from escaping.

There was something wrong with him.

There was something horribly wrong.

Every breath was agony and he pushed his free hand down his body to touch at the searing, hot wrongness. It came away wet, and sticky.

“Oh my God,” Steve gasped out, but it sounded different. Frailer. Decidedly unlike Conan and woefully similar to a small, asthmatic librarian.

“I had to.”

Steve jolted at the voice of the newcomer--harsh and unforgiving. He turned his head to the side and saw a shadow in the corner, black as ink, still as silence.

“I’m...I think I’m dying.” Steve started to cough.

“The conclave. They…”

Blood spattered the floor as Steve choked, and he flinched away from it. This was a nightmare. This couldn’t be happening. _Not this way, not this way not this way._

He was no longer in the Shadow Realm and the time for magic was past.

“James?” Steve gasped out.

“How did you know my name.” It wasn’t a question so much as it was an absolute demand. The voice was unforgiving and cruel and nothing like the man Steve once knew.

“You died.” Steve wanted to elaborate, but it hurt too much to breathe.

“Here. They found me here. I was a savior of Usheira once also. But the conclave has certain expectations.” James moved then, shuffled out of the darkness, the figure of the monster surrounded him like an aura. Still black. Still masked. Still unreal. “You’re dying,” he added. “I’m sorry.”

“No shit,” Steve answered. “You taught a yoga class. In Chicago.”

There was nothing so ridiculous and inane as making conversation with a masked assassin from another realm while bleeding out from a knife wound on his living room floor.

“Oh. James.” James said, as though suddenly everything were clear. “I miss him.”

“James?” Steve asked. “Would you particularly mind passing me a stick of charcoal? They can be found in my right pants pocket.”

James didn’t move. His eye narrowed and his voice wavered as he spoke. “If you go back they will kill you. They’ll kill me too. For not killing you.”

“You’re a bleak one, James, you know that?” Steve tried to move himself to find the sticks, but a wave of pain and dizziness washed over him. He tilted his head once more and puked bile. “Fuck…” he muttered. “Charcoal? Please?”

“You are...stubborn.”

“I’ve been told.” Steve wiped his mouth and grimaced. “Fuck me. Charcoal now. I’d really prefer and end that doesn’t involve me dying on the floor of my shitty apartment, in my shitty, ailment-infested body.”

“Right,” James said as he began rifling through Steve’s pants. “Charcoal. Of course.”

“Well, how t’hell did you get there?” Steve asked. It sounded more like a series of vowels and grunts. Bleeding out did nothing for his vocabulary.

“Back of a closet. Of course.”

“James?” Steve gasped out.

“Hmm?”

“You were a really hot yoga teacher.” He grunted. “The leather looks even better. Now let’s go annihilate a fucking coven.”

_**END** _

_**** _

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://http://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com//)


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